The Bride's Secret

by Helen Brooks

  'No.' It was the rat who told you I'd got someone else, who was part of an organisation that would take fiendish delight in breaking you and watching you crawl or worse, who was married to my mother—my mother… 'That's all I'm saying, Hudson.' She raised drowning eyes to his, her misery so visible it stopped his breath.

  'Except that I'm sorry I hurt you and… and let you down. I didn't mean to, but I realised I couldn't marry you, that it was impossible—with you or anyone else. I… I was stupid to let you think otherwise.'

  Impossible with you because it would destroy you—impossible with anyone else because I couldn't bear to let another man touch me, loving you as I do, she thought numbly.

  'And that's it? That's as much as you are going to say?' he asked slowly after a long moment when his eyes searched each feature of her white face. 'You expect me to accept that and ask no more?'

  If she tried to speak again she would break down completely—in an effort to keep control, she was already biting her lip so hard she could taste blood, and so she merely nodded, a short, sharp little bob of her head, which, along with her clenched hands and deathly pale face, spoke volumes to the big man who had spent most of his working life calculating just how far he could push another human being before they reached breaking point.

  'Okay.' It was cool and calm and casual, and totally at odds with all that had gone on before.

  'Okay?' she asked weakly, her mind refusing to accept his capitulation. 'What do you mean, "okay"?'

  'Okay, fine, no problem… ' He smiled, and she was too nervous and keyed up—her nerves stretched tight and rigid—to notice that the narrowed grey eyes were as cold mid dark as deep water, and just as fathomless.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Marianne hadn't expected to enjoy any part of the afternoon, but amazingly, once they had left the car and begun to wander around the massive enclosure the market was held in, she found the alien sights and smells too fascinating to resist.

  The area was very busy—Hudson had told her on the way there that the weekly meeting place was as much a social occasion for visiting friends and catching up on the news, as the buying and selling of wares—and very colourful. It was clear the day was one which loomed large in the lives of the countrypeople, taking the place of cinemas, church fairs, and other entertainment the western world enjoyed as its right.

  'A taste of the real Morocco.' Hudson's voice was soft and appreciative and mirrored her thoughts exactly, but then, as he took her hand, his flesh warm and firm, all her senses were tied up with the big male figure at her side.

  They could have been an ordinary couple on holiday doing a bit of sightseeing, she thought with a touch of hysteria, and probably appeared so to anyone observing them. If nothing else, the last two years had taught her never to assume that what she could see and hear was necessarily as it seemed—that to accept people or situations at face value was a grave mistake. Some people spent their whole lives putting on a brave front—she understood that now in a way she could never have done before she had met Hudson, and before Michael had destroyed their happiness so cruelly.

  'Home-made soap.' Hudson pointed to a large basket behind which a darkly bearded Moroccan man sat, his brown skin like leather. 'He'll have cooked it up by boiling ashes from his kitchen fire with fat cut from meat The old ways still flourish here once you're out of the big towns and cities.'

  'I see.' He seemed to be doing a roaring trade, Marianne thought as she smiled into the bright beady eyes watching them, receiving a gap-toothed grin in return.

  One farmer had several clusters of live chickens with their feet tied together and their heads hanging down. Another had vegetable produce, another baskets of eggs. At one spot a great pile of yellow melons stood, and next to them a wizened little old Arab was crouching beside a small charcoal fire burning in a brazier. He was cooking sizzling chunks of mutton on skewers and selling them to the waiting crowd, who then moved on to the water-carrier nearby, who was exchanging a cupful of water from his goatskin for a few small coins. Marianne was fascinated by the almost biblical scene.

  It was vibrant and colourful, and so different from life in the city that Marianne had the strange feeling she had stepped back in time, that she had been transported to another age, another world.

  Would that she had been… She glanced at Hudson from under her eyelashes as the thought took form. A world where no Michaels had ever existed—no past, no future, just… now. Here with Hudson, touching him, feeling him close, she could almost imagine it… almost. She looked away, her heart thudding. Careful, Marianne, careful, she told herself tightly. She had to be cautious, always keep her guard up and perpetuate the subterfuge that was as abhorrent as it was necessary. He was too intelligent for less.

  'Have you thought of me once or twice over the last two years, Annie?'

  It was said without any recognisable emotion or expression, and took a moment or two to sink in, but then her eyes shot to his face and she saw he was looking at her with that intent grey gaze that betrayed very little. 'Have you?' he repeated calmly.

  'I… Y-yes, of course,' she stammered weakly. 'Sometimes.'

  'Sometimes.' He nodded thoughtfully. 'And what coloured those thoughts? Any touch of regret or remorse?'

  'I… ' He was still holding her hand, and must have felt the convulsive jerk of her fingers, but the cool, relaxed face was quite unreadable, his eyes shuttered and remote. 'Hudson… ' Her voice trailed away again as she felt panic rip through her, even as she told herself she had to speak, to act normally, to play the part she had chosen—no, the part that had been forced on her, she corrected silently—as best she could. He was too intuitive, too perceptive for her to stammer and stutter her way through. 'There's no point in this conversation.'

  'You're such a mix of personalities under that smooth, silky skin, aren't you?' he observed with a flatness that was unnerving. 'You make me feel like one of those game-show hosts—"Will the real Marianne Harding please stand up?"—you know?' He smiled, but it held no humour at all. 'But you wouldn't, would you?' he added slowly. 'I see that now.'

  'Wouldn't what?' she asked bewilderedly.

  'Let me see the real you.' His eyes were keen on her flushed face and she stared at him, searching her mind for a reply that just wouldn't materialise for some moments.

  'You make me sound quite mysterious,' she managed at last.

  But he turned as she spoke, gesturing to a big basket of sun-ripened cherries an elderly farmer was trying to sell as he asked, in fluent French, how much the fruit was.

  They ate the succulent red cherries sitting on an old stone wall overlooking the market-place, the afternoon sun hot but without the fierceness of midday, and the venerable stones warm and mellow. It was a tranquil spot, a soft agelessness to the scene that was terribly poignant.

  Marianne knew she would remember the interlude all her life—the bright sunshine, the smells and sights, the feel of the ancient warm stone under her legs and the taste of the cherries on her tongue. And Hudson. Hudson…

  'Are you happy, Annie? With your exciting London life and wonderful job?' he asked softly, when she least expected it 'Does your career give you everything you need?'

  No, it didn't even begin to. 'Very much so,' she said brightly, his words making her finish her last cherry in one gulp, stone and all. 'Does yours?' she asked with a brittle smile.

  'My career?' He shook his head slowly. It's a big part of my life but it doesn't consume me. I have other… pleasures.'

  I know, I've seen one of them at the hotel, she thought fiercely as a dart of pain so sharp as to be unbearable shot through her chest 'That's nice.' She forced another smile.

  'Isn't it?' he agreed drily, his gaze moving from her face to the bustling scene in front of them, most of the traders beginning to pack their wares and purchases for the long trek home by donkey, bus or bicycle, few of them being able to afford their own car. 'I like to think I'm well-rounded. The old adage of all work and no play still holds goo
d in this frantic age. I've seen more men collapse with overwork than anything else. There has to be a balance in life… enjoyment'

  She had no doubt at all that the luscious redhead could give him all the enjoyment he could handle, Marianne thought tightly. 'Quite.' She tried to make her voice even but it came out more as a snap, and to cover up she said quickly, 'Do… do you play a sport? Something you do to relax?'

  She didn't believe she'd just said that. As the smoky-grey gaze turned her way she wanted to curl up and die at the dark amusement in his eyes. How could she have put it like that?

  'Don't you remember?' he asked softly. 'Two years isn't that long.'

  'I… No—At least, I don't think… '

  'Squash.' The grey eyes were relishing her hot-faced, mumbling confusion. 'I play squash, Annie,' he said mockingly.

  'Right.' She nodded like a demented parrot. 'Squash. Yes.'

  'Among other things.'

  They arrived back at the car with the late-afternoon sun still high in the sky, and as Marianne slid inside the suffocatingly hot interior she took her hat off and tossed it onto the back seat, looping all the hair she could gather back into the knot on top of her head to cool her overheated neck. The car was like a sauna.

  'It's still like spun gold and as fine as silk.'

  'What?' As Hudson joined her in the car his voice was deep and throaty, but so velvety-soft she thought she had misheard him.

  'Your hair.' His eyes sent trickles of sensation shivering down her spine as they wandered over her, their darkness mesmerising. 'I've known other women who have tried to achieve that sort of look but never quite pulled it off, but with you it's natural, isn't it?' He shook his head slowly. 'And lethal,' he added daddy.

  'What sort of look?' she asked warily. There was something in his voice—just the merest something—that made her wonder if he was being complimentary or insulting.

  'Temptation with restraint, a sort of come-hither appeal but with the proviso that the unfortunate male doesn't come too close,' he said thoughtfully. 'Sex and innocence—it's a deadly combination and you do it very well.'

  'I'm not trying to tempt anybody,' she objected heatedly, warm colour staining her cheeks at his description of a teasing femme fatale. 'I wear my hair this way for me, that's all, and I like it long,' she added militantly, her eyes flashing green sparks.

  'Oh, so do I, and probably the rest of the male population would say the same,' he murmured drily.

  'That's not my problem.' She glared at him—hurt beyond measure at the suggestion she was trying to entice unfortunate men to their doom, like the sirens of Greek mythology. 'Anyway, should you really be here now with me?' she asked tightly. 'Surely the current lady, whoever she is, might object?'

  'Why should she?' In direct contrast to her crumbling control, his manner was one of cool self-possession and calm, his voice serene, aloof even. 'We mean nothing to each other now; you know it and I know it. This is just an… interlude, a catching up on old times, if you like,' he said smoothly.

  She didn't like. She didn't like at all. And the fact that she was hurt, angry—whatever the name was for the sensation of raging pain in the pit of her stomach—at his apparent ability to turn his emotions on and off like a tap was doubly worrying. She wanted him to want her as he had earlier that afternoon, to desire her body if nothing else, and now apparently even that weakness was under control.

  But she shouldn't want him to want her. The thought darkened her eyes to black emerald, causing the light gold flecks to stand out in sharp contrast. She should be glad he was over her, that he'd made a life without her, with… with someone else. She should. She found she wasn't cut out to be a martyr as jealousy cut deep.

  He stared at her intently for a second, his face imperturbable and his thoughts hidden from her, before turning and starting the engine, his movements controlled and collected.

  'We'd better get you back to the hotel,' he said quietly. 'It wouldn't do for the reputable Keith to imagine you were actually enjoying being in my company, would it? He might get the wrong idea' He glanced at her, his eyes mocking now.

  'I thought that was the point of this game you're playing,' Marianne said tightly, fighting back the tears that were gathering like hot acid at the back of her eyes, and willing her voice not to falter.

  'Is that what you think this is? A game?' he asked flatly, harshness twisting his lips and turning the hard planes of his face to chiselled stone. 'This is no game, Annie. I grew out of games a long, long time ago. No, whatever this is—and you'll find out soon enough—it's deadly serious. In my line of work… ' He paused for a moment, his eyes hard on her white face before he continued, 'In my line of work retribution isn't always forthcoming, more's the pity, but where it's in my power to redress the balance I do so. I find it… satisfying, I have to admit'

  'And that's how you see this?' she asked faintly. 'Us?'

  'There is no "us", you made that perfectly clear two years ago,' he said coolly, his gaze piercingly intent 'Didn't you?'

  'Yes, but—'

  'There can be no "buts", Annie, not in a situation like this. A broken appointment, a momentary hiccup in communication, that could qualify as a "but". But the severance of two hearts? I think not.' His eyes were burning into her mind, their glittering depths searching and concentrated. 'You walked away from me and you left a piece of paper to explain why. And it didn't'

  'What do you want from me?' she whispered tremblingly. His capitulation earlier that day had been too easy; she might have known.

  His hard, sensuous mouth took hers and she was too surprised at first to resist, but the kiss only lasted a few seconds, its bruising fierceness hungry and wild. And then the control was there again, governing his moving away from her shaking body and fully into his own seat as he allowed the growling engine to have its head and spring the car forward.

  'All in good time,' he said coolly. 'All in good time.'

  'If you think I'm going to put up with this then you're very much mistaken. I'm not some mindless bimbo you can order about.'

  She had wanted to sound outraged, strong and firm, but even to her own ears her voice was weak and trembling.

  'With what?' he asked evenly, sparing her one sardonic glance before concentrating on the road again. 'An afternoon out? A relaxed picnic with an old… acquaintance? A few hours' sightseeing? What is so terrible about that, Annie? You're going to be delivered back to the hotel in time for dinner and before your evening's work, aren't you? Exactly as I promised.'

  If he thought she was going to have dinner with him, he could think again. She glared at the cool profile, her cheeks fiery and her heart sore. And she would tell him so, in no uncertain terms, when they got back to the hotel. He was an arrogant brute…

  As it happened there was no need. After parking the car, Hudson took her arm as they walked across to the hotel, and, just as she had perfected the bitingly composed refusal she had been practising all the way back, she saw a group of people who looked vaguely familiar waiting in Reception.

  'Hudson… ' As a low, throaty voice spoke his name at the same time as the redhead—who had been obscured by a tall, portly man—moved into view, Marianne realised where she had seen them before. 'We've been waiting for you for ages, sweetie; the show starts at seven, remember?' the redhead drawled huskily as she took his arm.

  'I haven't forgotten.' Hudson nodded at them all before turning to glance down at Marianne, his eyes remote. 'Goodbye, Annie. Enjoy your evening,' he said coolly.

  Marianne was conscious of making some reply, although she couldn't have told anyone exactly what, before she carried on past the group and over to the lift, almost falling into the interior of the carpeted box and having to force herself to turn round and face Reception as she pressed the button for her floor. They had gone—Reception was empty.

  That would teach her! The thought was hot and caustic, and continued to hammer its way home all through dinner—of which she barely ate a bite—and the evening s
hoot which followed, so that by the time she arrived back at the hotel that night her head was thudding with a sick headache and her neck was as stiff as a board. She took two aspirins, showered and went to bed.

  She slept badly and awoke tired and dull-eyed, joining the others at breakfast in something of a dream, and then snapping fully awake as she glanced across the dining room and saw Hudson sitting in solitary contentment, enjoying what looked like a huge breakfast She hated him. She did; she loathed him! He had no right to look so at ease and cool and satisfied when she was falling apart inside. How dared he eat such a huge breakfast?

  As though her thoughts had communicated themselves across the room, he raised his head as she watched him, meeting her eyes with a distant coldness and nodding dismissively before continuing with his meal. As a snub it was a prize-winner.

  That incident set the tone for the next three days until the job was finished, and reduced Marianne to a quivering, nervous wreck. If she happened to see Hudson about the hotel at any time, he was courteous and polite and terribly remote, exchanging the barest of niceties before going his own way.

  Marianne worked all day and cried most of the nights, and by her last evening at the hotel—Keith and the others having left Tangier that afternoon as soon as the shoot was finished—she felt like a limp rag, and would have given the world just to go home to England and her little fiat rather than embark on the proposed trip round Morocco's cities. But something deep inside, a feeling compounded of pride, self-preservation and a strange kind of fortitude that wouldn't let her creep away and hide, kept her to her original plan.

  And it was this same feeling that drove her downstairs to the dining room that evening, rather than ordering a meal to be sent up to her room, although she knew Hudson would probably be eating there—if Tie wasn't already out with the redhead.

  It had become apparent over the last few days that his girlfriend wasn't staying at the hotel, but the tall, voluptuous female figure had cropped up with monotonous regularity in the evenings—Hudson either dining with her and his other friends at the hotel, or a crowd of them going elsewhere to eat after meeting in Reception. And it had become increasingly hard to take.